El espectáculo comenzó con la señal de un disturbio de la técnico y el primer equipo, un juego abreviado — escritos de cuero, chaqueta de cuero chaqueta, emparejando botines de cuero — vino en la barra de color de banda de viejos patrones de prueba de televisión. No ajustar su televisor: Jeremy Scott está aquí para interrumpir su programación habitual de NYFW.
The show began with the beep of a technical disturbance, and the first outfit, an abbreviated suit—leather briefs, leather cardigan jacket, matching leather booties—came in the color-bar stripe of old television test patterns. Do not adjust your set: Jeremy Scott is here to interrupt your regularly scheduled NYFW programming.
But as interruptions go, you could set your watch by Scott’s. Every Wednesday of New York fashion week receives this familiar intervention. The crowd is reliably pound-for-pound the week’s truest representation of on-the-street fashion obsession—versus jaded, editorial dutifulness. And you know to be prepared for the interminable wait for the celebrity front-row to finally file in (this time, Nicki Minaj and A$AP Rocky).
And then the collection. The accoutrements—Eugene Souleiman’s bouffant wigs, Michel Gaubert’s girl-group soundtrack bubbling over with “Lollipop” and “My Boyfriend’s Back”—suggested the moment when the fifties met the sixties. But the clothes themselves were vintage Scott. His short, tight, and sugary designs, rarely looser than second skin and longer than barely there, are playbook by now. Despite his increasingly high-profile collaborators, key among them his stylist as of last season, Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele, the designer seems immovably settled into his own idiom. There’s no shortage of fans for it, as his presentations amply demonstrate, but the clockwork regularity of it makes you wonder why he feels a need to demonstrate it so amply. At fifty-five looks, his show was one of the longest of the week.